


Through His Eyes III

by Evaldrynn



Series: Fǫruneyti [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Chapter 37 and 38 of Fǫruneyti from Loki's point of view, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 18:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12941307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaldrynn/pseuds/Evaldrynn
Summary: Fǫruneyti commissionChapter 37 and 38 of Fǫruneyti from Loki's point of view.This is canon in the story!





	Through His Eyes III

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fǫruneyti](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937811) by [Evaldrynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaldrynn/pseuds/Evaldrynn). 



> For **Iceiclesified**
> 
> Thank you so much for commissioning me! (●´ω｀●)

The moment he had set foot in the massive room Ylva had latched onto his arm like a parasite, talking without pause about how much she enjoyed balls and wanted to dance with him. He had responded with polite but short answers yet still she kept blabbering like an excited child. He didn't even fully listen anymore. His eyes kept scanning the crowd, kept shifting between the attendees and the spaces between them. When would you arrive? Would you allow him to ask you for a dance? 

The memories of yesterday stood etched into his brain. How he had watched you dance with Kari, your face stuck in a slight frown as you focused on all the wrong things. He had needed to hold back a snicker when you stepped on her toes for what must have been the third time that day. Then your expression had turned to slight disappointment, your shoulders had fallen, and he had seen the defeat in your eyes. 

_“I'm sorry, Kari. I think dancing just isn't something for me.”_

And though he had felt that urge to make you smile again, that deep need to bring you joy and wipe away anything else, the things he had done had been mostly for himself.  
He had proposed to Lead instead of Kari, had stepped forward with the determination to dance with you until you had been convinced of your own capability, and had held up his hand for you either to take or to refuse it. 

And you had taken it. 

Callused fingers yet oh so soft; the hands of a healer. He had wrapped his own around them, had laid his other hand on your waist. It was not the first time he noticed how perfectly it fit there.  
The music begun; and he had danced with you. 

He had been able to hold you close, to look into your eyes and whisper to you to let him take control. His lips had been so close to that sweet neck of yours – he did not know how he had managed to refrain from kissing it – and the look in your wide eyes had made his heart clench in all the right ways. He cared so much for you. So very, very much. 

He wanted to dance again. Wanted to feel your skin on his. 

But the moment he spotted you a polite smile - not even fully aimed at him specifically - was all he got before you disappeared, swallowed by the crowd. He knew it was because of Ylva. The wench still clung to him and her eyes were trained on where you had stood only seconds ago, a fiery hate swirling in the pale blue. If he could have left her to search for you, he would have done so without a moment of hesitation. 

He only caught glimpses of you in the hour that followed. Glimpses of that dress in which you looked so incredibly beautiful; glimpses of the nervous look on your face. Glimpses of the men that asked you to dance. 

He wanted to push them aside, wanted to take your hand and pull you against his chest to let everyone know he would not tolerate anyone else to dance with you. He wanted to show them you were his. 

But you weren't. 

Instead, this white-haired foreigner was to be his wife; was to be the one he would have to spend his life with. He hated the thought of it, and he knew he would hate it even more when it would become reality. 

“Why won't you dance with me, Loki? Let's have some fun.” 

The twinkle in her eyes told him she expected more than just a dance tonight, and it sickened him. But how could he refuse? He had no where to go, nowhere to turn if he would break off this engagement for no reason. Yes, his mother would most likely welcome him back with open arms, but he was certain of it that Odin would be much less enthused. Perhaps the All-father would not even allow him to return to the palace, would cast him out and tell him to either make amends with the Yllgardian princess or to never show his face again. Because that was what he was: a tool to be used, an object to cast aside once it proved to be dysfunctional. 

So he gave a nod and let her lead him to the middle of the room, positioned himself as formally as possible, and danced.

He hated how she felt beneath his hands compared to you. He hated her scent, hated her physique, hated the way she looked at him. Compared to you, she was nothing.  
Would you take him in, if he was unwelcome anywhere else? Would you allow him into your home if Asgard would deny him shelter? He was certain you would. 

Then perhaps... Perhaps cancelling the marriage was not that bad of a choice to make. He could help you with your tasks, could continue to teach you about magic, could build a life in the Village Between Kingdoms; and maybe, over time, he could even make you care for him like he cared for you. Could he hope for your affections? Could he hope for more than just a friendly acquaintanceship? 

The music continued but the people had gotten quieter, their movements stilling a bit – until two voices pierced through. 

“Bitch!”

“Let me go!” 

“Fuck-” 

His eyes shot towards the sound and there he saw you, caught in prince Erlend's grasp. The way he had his arms wrapped around you, the panic in your eyes- 

Before he knew it he had pushed Ylva aside and strode over to your harasser. 

_”How dare you touch her!”_

Rage surged through him and boiled his blood as he pulled the man from your body and moved in between, grabbing his collar and lifting him off his feet. He was going to kill him. He was going to kill this piece of vermin and the nine realms would agree on the good riddance.

“Loki, stop-” 

But he couldn't hear you, barely felt the touch of your hand on his arm. The only thing he could see was the squirming prince clawing at his wrist. His magic nearly exploded around him and he raised his fist-

Your hands settled on his jaw and gently pulled down his face, and your lips pressed against his. 

He froze. 

The rage was gone. His strength was gone. The fabric slipped from his fingers and Erlend hit the ground with a thud before he scrambled off to take his distance, but Loki paid him no attention; because inside of him it was chaos.  
Confusion, shock, disorientation. His stomach was twisting and turning and his heart felt light. Then, as his mind finally began to process what was going on more emotions were added to the turmoil: affection, delight, lust, love. 

His hand slid around your waist and he lifted the other. He wanted to cup your cheek, wanted to deepen the kiss, wanted to taste more of you, _all_ of you-

But you broke the kiss,

“I'm sorry.” 

and the world went black.

 

 

He awoke with his back on a mattress and a few faces hovering above his own.

“He's awake!” 

They were pushed out of view to make room for one he recognised all too well, and dislike made bile rise in his throat.

“Oh sugar, what has she done to you? Just say the words and I will have that bitch beheaded; we shouldn't have let some lowly cow like her into the palace-”

“No.”

His mind was growing clearer and he moved to sit up, wasting no time to swing his legs over the bed. He lay a hand to his forehead. Your magic still lingered in his brain, still tried to keep him unconscious, and he did not know what to think of it.  
But the moment Ylva opened her mouth he shot her a look that sent a shiver down her spine, and she set a step back. His voice was almost a growl when he spoke: 

“And never speak of her like that ever again.” 

“W-w-wait! Where are you going?” She reached for his sleeve but he swatted her hand away. “You can't kill my brother! That's treason-” 

“Where I am going is none of your concern.” 

And before either of them could respond he teleported away. 

 

He could still feel your lips against his, could still smell your intoxicating scent and taste your addictive taste. He craved more. He craved more of everything. 

Did you reciprocate his feelings, then, or had it only been to distract him? If you had not kissed him he would have killed the prince without doubt. Was that all that was behind this? A way to stop him from murdering someone that had tried to do things to you without your consent? He felt his heart sink. It was the most logical assumption, but also the one that hurt the most. Would you ever be able to love him? Would anyone? 

He stared at the white-metal door that separated your chambers from the hallway he stood in. He couldn't go in like himself – if your magic was anything to go by, you had wanted to keep him asleep for quite a bit longer. But he wanted to talk to you, he _needed_ to talk to you, to ask you if there truly was nothing else than friendship towards him. 

So he began to think. Who did you trust most? Who would you confide in? He knew you were close to his brother, but you might refrain from speaking the truth to Thor when the subject of the conversation would stand close to him personally. You wouldn't speak bad about him against his own family. Then perhaps one of his brother's guard dogs? That one with the brown curly hair and the sister you had healed. Yes, you were close to him as far as he knew – he tried not to let jealousy put him off his mission – and so perhaps he was the best choice of them all. 

He let his magic wash over him, knocked on the door, and called your name in a voice that was not his own. 

“It's me. Can I come in?” 

He was too impatient to wait, however, and opened the door before an answer had come. But when he saw you – the puffiness of your eyes, the redness of your cheeks, the mess that was your hair and the agony in your eyes – he felt his heart contract. Why had you cried? Why did it look like you were in pain? Did you regret kissing him so much? Had the incident with the foreign prince shocked you so deeply?  
Your expression switched to anger and you turned your back to him, wiping an arm across your tear-stained face and clearing your throat. 

“I'm leaving.” 

His heart stopped. 

“What – why?” 

Your head snapped back and you looked at him as if he was crazy. “Because I fucked it up, Brant! I fucked it all up! Shit-” You groaned and your hands formed fists, but as soon as that frustration had come it disappeared again; leaving an emptiness in your eyes that terrified him. “I can't take this anymore. It hurts too much, and I just can't take it anymore.” 

His heart clenched again at the tone of your words. Your voice was hoarse, as if you had been screaming in terror or torture, and you held your hands in front of your heart as if it was the only thing keeping it beating. He didn't know what was wrong, what exactly caused you to hurt so much; but he wanted to do everything in his power to make it right. 

“I'm... Not sure I understand-” 

“I kissed him.” 

He stayed silent. So this was about the kiss, after all; but how? 

You continued after a sigh, your voice so soft and breaking so easily he wanted to pull you into his arms and comfort you, yet he didn't dare to move. 

“It was merely to get him to stop. His mind is always guarded against magic and for mine to work I needed to get that barrier down, I needed to surprise him to gain access-” You huffed out a short, mirthless laugh. “I didn't have time to think it through, to find other ways to catch him off-guard, and this is what first came to mind and now he knows – he must know.” 

It was as he had feared, then – a kiss to lower his mental shields against magic. Smart, but it stung. It stung more than he would like to admit.  
He couldn't figure out what your last words meant, however. What would he know? No matter what path his mind took he could not come to an answer, so there was no other option than to ask. 

“Know what?” 

You looked at him as if he was an idiot, disbelief written all over your face.

“That I am in love with him! What else could it possibly be?” 

 

He froze for the second time that day. 

 

His lungs had forgotten to breathe, his heart had lost its rhythm, and it was as if everything he knew had been wiped from his brain. His body acted on its own and he shook his head – he needed to pose as Brant for a little while longer. Even though shock still had him paralysed and hope was beginning to make his heart swell, he could be misunderstanding, right? 

“I still don't understand what you see in him.” 

“Do you want a list?” 

He could see the anger surface again, but the water gathering in the corners of your eyes caught him by surprise. 

“Do you want me to name it all? So you can shake your head some more? Sure, why not!” You threw your hands up in the air in a grand gesture of frustration, yet like before it seemed to morph into pain the moment you began your rant. 

“I love everything about him. I love his voice, how he speaks; how he teases me. I love how he walks, how he moves.” The tears were steaming, falling, dripping from your chin. “None of you believe me when I speak of his kindness but his heart is soft even though he acts so proud and tough. He can be so gentle, so warm-” you chuckled quietly, wiping your fingers beneath your eyes in a futile attempt to stop from crying. “I love his eyes. His beautiful, soft hair; his cheekbones, his jawline. I love his nose, his lips, his smile - and his laugh, gods-” A loud sob shook your shoulders. “His laugh is something I never wish to forget.” 

You covered your face for a second, taking a deep breath before dragging your hands down and letting them fall to your sides again. “I love his intelligence. I love his sense of humour. I love how he can dance, how he masters magic in ways I can never hope to achieve. I love how he makes me feel whenever he's near me. I love everything about him, Brant, and to see him with Ylva-” You paused, the lump in your throat getting in the way of your words. “And he loves her a-and he's g-going to marry her a-and I don't- I can't-” 

He couldn't believe it. Every bit of reason in his brain seemed to scream at him that this was a dream, some sort of illusion. Had he died? Was this the afterlife? This could not be real, it couldn't be. But despite his efforts to find a logical explanation his heart began to swell and glow, his hopes shooting out of proportion and his feelings for you expanding exponentially. 

You were in love with him. You were in love with all those things about him. He could never have dared to hope that – how was this reality? What had he done to deserve this, to deserve you? He wanted to hug you tighter than he had ever had the chance to, wanted to kiss you endlessly. He wanted to make love to you, to show you how deeply he cared for you. 

 

So he dropped his illusion, and returned from brown-haired soldier to raven-haired prince.


End file.
